Giliahna wished at that moment that she could kiss Djylz. It was just such acts as this that had so endeared him to his people, the lowly as well as the high. Another lord might have taken those fine milch cows as his own and sent men to watch over and harvest the growing crops, bringing him all, instead of his customary half. But not so her beloved husband. She raised the beaver of her helm, that the others might not see her small, pointed chin quiver with the intensity of her emotion.

That night, Giliahna shamelessly seduced the prince in his bath. And they did not appear for the night meal, remaining rather behind the closed and barred doors of their chamber until Sacred Sun streamed through the window. Each savored the other, knowing without knowing that this would be the last such night they would have together.

Chapter VIII

Lying snuggled under the White Hawk coverlet as the crackling fire slowly began to warm her bedchamber in her dead father's hall, Giliahna wept afresh and unashamedly for Djylz, for the loss—hers, the principate's and the world's—of the fine, strong, honorable, loving and much loved man that he had been.

At the very end, when the noble Sword Brothers had completed their secret and private rites and she was allowed back into the bedchamber, he had weakly signed her to sit beside him upon that big bed which had been theirs.

His voice was weak, but firm and precise as always. "Giliahna, love, promise me that you will remain in Kuhmbuhluhn long enough to set Gy on the proper path. A reign is molded, for good or for ill, at the ascension of a lord And see him wedded to a good wife of good stock, not simply for land or wealth—Steel knows, I leave him a surfeit of both.

"Nor are you forgotten, my sweet, young love. All the jewels save only the heirloom treasures are yours. By our law, a dowager princess is Land-Lady of the Duchy of Vaizburk, which holdings remain exempt of principate taxes throughout her lifetime."

There had been more, much more. And then, suddenly, the old man had said, "My sword! Bring me my sword, quickly!"

Giliahna started to lift the pillow-sword from its place, but he shook his head. "No! My battlesword."

With the worn, wire-wound hilt in his weak grip and the polished steel ball-pommel under his forearm, he smiled fleetingly and sighed. "An affectation, mayhap, but no man of my house has ever died without his steel in hand. Now, my last love please kiss me."

Giliahna's lips had but barely touched his, when she felt the life leave his body.

The state funeral was held only three days later, due to the unseasonable heat. Then Giliahna and the Principate Council ruled as regents until, a fortnight after his father's entombment, Gy of Kuhmbuhluhn rode in from the north to claim his patrimony.

Standing upon the steps of the palace to greet her returning stepson, Giliahna and the other councilors were all but deafened by the cheering of the folk who packed the narrow streets, hung out of windows and even clung to eaves and rooftops to catch a first glimpse of their new, young lord. Smiling, silver-scaled troopers of the principate horseguards and footguards gently pushed the crowds back to make way for the cavalcade with nudges of long, limber poles—Djylz had always forbidden the use of whips or polearms against his folk.

Giliahna felt a cold chill course over every inch of her body when first her eyes took in the lead rider of the procession. The armor, though highly burnished, was plain and the helm concealed most of the face from her viewpoint, but that figure could be none other but Djylz—dead Djylz, whom she had seen buried beside his father in the great crypt beneath the Sword Altar. How he sat his horse, erect but relaxed, that was Djylz; the movements of the gloved hands, saluting the crowds and handling his reins, that was Djylz… it could be none other.

But, at the foot of the steps, the illusion was dispelled. After dismounting from his tall destrier, the rider removed his helm to reveal a smooth-shaven face and head, both already scarred. Moving lightly in his heavy half armor, the warrior first rendered to Giliahna the homage due her—for until he was formally approved by the Council of Nobles and crowned in public ceremony, she was the reigning Princess of Kuhmbuhluhn.

Kneeling on the step below her, Gy brought to his lips and kissed first the embroidered hem of her skirt, then that small hand on which the massive Ring of Kuhmbuhluhn fitted so loosely. That done, he arose and gathered her into his strong arms.

Though his voice was not so deep as had been his father's, it was every bit as warm and gentle. "Mother mine. Little mother Giliahna. It has been so long and I have so missed you."

Prince Gy II of Kuhmbuhluhn proved to need little of the guidance which Giliahna had promised. He slipped into his place and duties as easily as sword into sheath. The polish he had gained at the court of Pitzburk stood him in good stead. He knew and automatically assumed the proper procedures whether granting audience to ambassadors or sitting at judgment in the city court on a case of two merchants accusing each other of unfair competition.

A truculent western noble, who had openly declared that what with the dry summer and the resultant damage to crops in the west he and his peers could not and would not render the usual taxes, was seen by Gy alone. Within an hour, he emerged, all smiles and praises of the young prince.

When asked by Giliahna how he had so quickly wrought such a change, Gy had grinned. "The western harvest was poor, but not so poor as he would have had me believe. Even so, I agreed to accept a sixth, rather than a third, this year; then I appointed him my official surrogate to accept and forward the grain and silver."

Giliahna wrinkled her brow. "But, Gy, how can you be certain that such a man will deal honestly?"

Gy's grin widened. "Little mother, I'm sending some of my own clerks—to save him the trouble and expense of hiring such, of course—and if he tries to steal from my revenues, I'll simply shorten him… by a head."

And Giliahna knew that the young man was perfectly capable of carrying out that threat, for when an especially predatory and ruthless band of cashiered Freefighters and assorted outlaws began to pray upon the trade road between Kuhmbuhluhnburk and Getzburk, the new prince mustered his horseguards and every resident or visiting nobleman and fostering who was not too old or too young, and sent gallopers to bear word to both the High Lords in Kehnooryos Atheenahs and to Duke Randee of Getzburk-York that he was campaigning to crush and extirpate the robbers and that he did not mean for borders to stop him.

Old Count Looiz of Kohlzburk, who had soldiered for J nearly twenty years before succeeding to his own inheritance ' and titles and now was Duke Randee's marshal, met Gy just north of the border with an escort of heavily armed nobles.

After polite greetings, the grizzled veteran got down to business. "Lord prince, Duke Randee is every bit as anxious to do in these scum as are you and he regrets that he cannot join you himself since he much valued the friendship of your late and much-lamented father. But the thrice-damned Iron King has been foraying in force across the northern border, and the duke is up there now with the bulk of our army.

"When your message reached him, however, he bade me come and assist you as best I can. Lord prince, my gentlemen and I are at your command."

Mounted foresters and hunters of both realms quickly scouted out a large, sprawling forest camp, and after a long, cold, wet, supperless night, the force struck at dawn. More than twoscore bandits were slain or seriously wounded, which meant death too. A dozen and a half were captured more or less hale. A number of captives—mostly female and all much-abused—were freed, along with fourscore horses and mules and a fair quantity of assorted livestock. And there was considerable inanimate loot "liberated."

For all their disparity in numbers—there had been only an eighth as many Getzburkers as the southern force—Gy saw to a precise halving of the booty between the principate and the duchy. Even Count Looiz protested that his lord's allotted share was too much, for all that he went about grinning like an opossum. But Gy was adamant, pointing out that the action had been fought on the duke's land and that, as the camp had been situated in Getzburk, the duke could—in strict interpretation of law—claim it all, were he so minded.

"Though, if he did," Gy chuckled and clapped Count Looiz on the shoulder, "he'd have a war on his southern border, too."

Back in Kuhmbuhluhn, the prince formally tried his nine captives, found them all guilty of highway robbery, maiming, stock-stealing, rape, kidnapping, extortion of illegal ransoms, murder and numerous other offenses. After public torture and mutilation, all nine were hanged in slow nooses.

But as to the other matter of which his father had bespoken Giliahna, Gy simply shrugged. "My princedom is at peace, I am not yet twenty and there is no urgency to assure the succession. In good time, I'll wed and bed and sire."

When news of her father's death reached the Principate of Kuhmbuhluhn and Giliahna broached her decision to journey to the duchy of her birth, possibly to not return to Kuhmbuhluhn, Gy and all the councilors tried mightily to dissuade her, but she was adamant and spoke to them in terms they could both comprehend and appreciate as the Middle Kingdoms noblemen they basically were, for all their principate's nominal Confederation allegiance.

"My Lord Gy, gentlemen, I must go back to Sanderz-Vawn on a matter of personal honor and of the honor of my house. A great injustice was done to me and my brother in years agone, and if he be unable or unwilling to go back, then it be my bounden duty to redress that wrong in the blood of those who perpetrated it. Your generous offers of lands and wealth make me feel truly humble in the light of the obvious love for me which impelled them, and please believe that the love I feel for Kuhmbuhluhn and for you all is no less in quantity or quality. But, noble gentlemen that you all are, you must recognize that satisfaction of this, my debt of honor, must come before other considerations."

The men grouped around the table nodded, one and all— in their minds blood debts took precedence over all else.

Old Archduke Rohluhn scratched at his skimpy white hair. "How many troops will my lady require? And can she estimate for how long the service?"

Before she could answer, Gy snapped, "Stop quibbling, uncle! Our lady is a Princess of Kuhmbuhluhn. She shall have at least one squadron of our horseguards—say, three hundred full-strength lances. And I'll command them; this business will be settled in short order, I trow!"

Giliahna repressed any trace of her mirth at his still-boyish enthusiasm, saying rather, "Lord prince, as you know, the High Lords permit organized bands of Freefighters to enter and leave the Confederation at will; but what do you think their reaction and that of the Prince of Karaleenos, in whose domains my home duchy lies, would be to an incursion of nearly one thousand household troops of Kuhmbuhluhn led by the reigning prince, himself?"

The aged archduke and several other veteran councilors nodded, and Duke Djaikuhb of Rahbzburk said, "My lady is right, my prince. Before you'd got five leagues south of the border, you'd find yourself boxed in by Confederation dragoons. They'd politely ask your business, then they'd politely point out the decrees of the High Lords forbidding the maintenance or the movements of private armies save on the frontiers, then they'd politely escort you and your lances back to Kuhmbuhluhn and, in a month or so, a messenger would arrive from Kehnooryos Atheenahs with a politely couched reprimand."

And so, Giliahna left Kuhmbuhluhnburk with only a dozen horseguards and her immediate retainers, conveyed in two coaches and three wagons. Upon hearing that mere was a rumor that Duke Hwahltuh of Sanderz-Vawn had died of slow poisoning, Gy would not rest his entreaties until Giliahna agreed to include in her party a Zahrtohgah physician, one Master Fahreed, and his apprentice, Raheen.

The prince and a large cavalcade accompanied the dowager princess as far as the border, and, during their last, solitary conversation, Gy took both her hands and looked down into her eyes. "My lady, you asked weeks agone if I loved any woman and I answered nay, but that is not true. I do love a woman. I love you and, did our laws not forbid such, you would be my wife, my princess—after all, I am less than five years your junior. But such can never be and I know it. Therefore, I charge you this: Send to me a sweet, loving maid like yourself, one who can come to love and comfort me as you loved and so comforted my dear father, and I vow to cherish her as I would have cherished you."

Ahrkeethoheeks Bili of Morguhn had been as gracious and caring a host as she recalled from her childhood visits to the Hall of the Red Eagle, and such had been the attentions lavished upon her by his handsome eldest son, Djef Morguhn, that she had felt almost embarrassed, before her acutely perceptive half brother noted her discomfiture and found a convenient errand for his heir to ride forth upon. He then proved a veritable fount of information, all of which she found interesting, but it was not until they were closeted alone together within his grim little office at Morguhn Hall that he imparted the news which set her heart to pounding and raised tingling goose flesh on her body from head to toe.

"At our last meeting before his… shall we say, untimely death, I promised your late sire that, when he died, I would .dispatch word to your brother, Tim. You should know that he and I have kept in touch over these last years and that, through me—though Tim doesn't know it—your late father's I gold reached him.

"Please listen to what I say and believe it, Giliahna. Your father deeply regretted his hasty and ill-advised actions in sending you and Tim away, but by the time he recovered fully from whatever drugs those harpies—your stepmother and her damned tongue-sister—were dosing him with, the deed was irrevocably done. You were wedded and Tim, stubborn in his hurt and rage, refused to respond to what few letters Hwahltuh could sneak past those Ehleenee and out of his hall. For, understand you, Giliahna, your poor, ailing father was very close to a prisoner in his own duchy in his last years, spied upon when he was not actively guarded by his wife and her slut, his half-Ehleen brood and their adherents.

"Giliahna, your father was born in a Horseclans yurt and was past middle age when he led his clan from the Sea of Grass. Your Horseclansman, fresh from the west, has an inordinate love for children, any children, but especially his own. You'd have to fully comprehend that fact to be aware of just how deeply your father hurt himself ten years ago. He was a proud man and strong, with more real guts than a whole tribe of mountain barbarians, yet many's the time he has sat in that same chair and wept like a whipped child in his regret over banishing you and Tim.

"Had he chosen to cleave to that thrice-damned perversion of a religion upon which Mehleena so dotes, he might have at least had the idiotic precepts of that faithless faith to console himself with. But Horseclansmen do not harbor this idiotic fear of interbreeding that the Ehleenee do; indeed, there is no such word as ahimomikseeah in all the Mehrikan dialects, though the High Lord Milo tells me that there was once such a word, centuries ago.

"But, be that as it may, your father is gone to Wind, along with his sorrow. You are returned, and Tim soon will be."

Giliahna clasped her hands tightly to keep them from trembling. In a painfully tight voice, she asked, "When, brother, oh when?"

The archduke smiled at what his uncommonly powerful mind could read in hers. "Two weeks, little sister, possibly three, depending upon road conditions. He'll be bringing the Ruby Company, his condotta, down here with him. One of my men will make contact with him ere he crosses into Kehnooryos Ehlahs, delivering to him a pass from High Lord Milo countersigned by our own Prince Zenos. Once he's here, of course, there'll be no question about private troops, since Vawn is still considered a frontier duchy in some senses."

He paused to drain his cup and refill both his and hers. "But I tell you all this in strictest confidence, sister. Be damned careful which if any of your retainers you tell, and be certain that you breathe not a word of it once you are at Vawn, to anyone, mind you. Your brother, Ahl, already knows, but don't even discuss it with him, either aloud or by mindspeak, for Tim has plans for Mehleena, her litter and her folk and't'were better that they not be forewarned."

Giliahna sipped her wine, "What sort of plans, Brother Bili?"

Bili cracked his big knuckles all at once. "I'm sure he'll confide them to you when arrive he does. But I don't know any details, nor do I wish to know them, lest I forget my duty to my overlord, Prince Zenos, who is Mehleena's cousin."

Geros had told him where to find her. In the wide corridor outside that room which, long ago, had so often been their place of love, he enjoined Sergeant Rai. "Draw you up that chair, old friend. Allow no one to pass into these chambers without my leave."

In the sitting room, he surprised a small, delicate-looking Zahrtohgan girl brewing a spicy tea, the exciting fragrance of which filled the chamber. "My lord," she began, "my lady is not yet arisen and she…" Then a tiny, brown-skinned hand flew to her dark lips and her soft brown eyes widened perceptibly. Smiling secretively, she shyly inquired, "You, then… my lord is my lady's brother? The Duke Tim?"

At his nod, the girl's smile widened, despite the tears coursing copiously down her dusky cheeks. "Oh… oh, my lord, oh, oh, my lady… so very happy she will be…"

Giliahna half-heard the chamber door open and half-knew that she should at least sit up and greet the sweet, faithful Widahd, but the other half of her was lost in erotically pleasant reveries of lying here, upon this very bed with Tim… so very long ago. Almost could she still feel his sweet lips pressing upon her own, almost feel his hands upon her shoulders, almost… The lips had withdrawn, but there was still a warm hand upon her shoulder, and so reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

Chapter IX

"Mother, dear?" Ahl's voice contained a larger than usual note of mockery and he fixed his blind eyes directly upon his stepmother.

Mehleena squirmed inwardly and her rage rose in proportion. She could not bear it when Ahl skewered her with those sightless eyes that seemed to be staring directly into her very soul. But before her rage could burst out in words, he had continued.

"Mother, dear, it were best that you have one of the carpenters reinforce another chair if you intend to dine with the rest of the family in future. In their present condition, I fear, any one of the less massive chairs would splinter under your lard-sow weight." The blind man smiled broadly and Lady ' Mairee chuckled throatily, adding unneeded fuel to stoke the fires of Mehleena's boiling anger.

But such was the fat woman's ire that no words would come, only screams, hisses and stuttering. Ahl and Lady Mairee observed her briefly, then the tall man arose, extending his arm to the tiny young woman. "My lady, it is time we departed. This will be a very full day, I feel it."

To his sorrow, Myron, too, arose at that moment. With all the force of her rage, Mehleena spun on her broad rump and sank her fist into his midsection, the pointy little knuckles penetrating the vee below the ribs, driving the air from his lungs and his just-eaten breakfast up into his throat.

While the unhappy young man gasped and choked, dribbling gobbets of chewed food and turning purple, Ahl never lost his sardonic smile. Shaking his head slowly, he said, "My, such fierce maternal affection. Wind be thanked that our dear mother does not treat me to her love taps. Little bumboy, you had best whack your lover on the back a few times, he appears to be strangling." Then, both of them chuckling, he and his lady made their slow, stately way down the length of the dining chamber and out of sight, leaving Ahl's stepbrother in his suffering and Ahl's stepmother still hissing and spluttering in her impotent rage.

The White Hawk coverlet had long since been kicked off the foot of the bed onto the floor, but not because of the fire on the hearth. The heat of two long-suppressed passions, finally commingled, had rendered the room hot as a smithy for a while. Now the evaporation of their love sweat was cooling them and Giliahna had straightened a wadded linen sheet enough to cover their wet bodies.

Raising herself on one elbow, she looked down upon the face of Tim, her brother, her first lover, now once more returned to her. "I never stopped loving him," she thought. "Yes, I loved Djylz, too, but… but it was a different kind of love; Djylz was my husband, my dearest friend, my companion, but he was never"—her brow wrinkled in concentration—"was never part of me, was never and could never have been what Tim is to me. It is as if all those long years something was gone, something was missing, I was but a shell of myself. And now, Tim has refilled that shell, has made me again complete. Oh, Tim, Tim, my dear dear brother; Sun and Wind, how I love you!"

"And I you, my sister." Thinking him sleeping, her thought had been unshielded and then, suddenly, Tim's mind was there within hers, but not as intruder… never as intruder.

"You have changed, Giliahna. The body I cherished in my memory those ten long years was that of a slender, tender, nubile young girl."

"Ob, Tim, Tim…" She pictured herself as she was reflected in the long mirror of her robing room—the flat muscles of shoulders, arms and legs well developed from years of riding, hunting, archery and, more recently, from fierce bouts of mock swordplay with her princely stepson, Gy; the flare of her hips beneath the narrowness of her waist, the waist, itself, made to seem smaller than truth by the flared hips and by the breasts above; no, her breasts were most certainly no longer those of a young girl, being full and firm and proudly out-thrusting, the dark-blue lines of veins meandering under the fair skin, the nipples small but prominent in their shade of fiery red-pink. "Do I? Does this body of mine, then, so displease you?"

His warm, sweet mind embraced her more fully than mere arms ever could. "Displease me, my sister? How ever could you displease me, you, who are a part of me? Ten years have passed and I am a man; for nine of those years—until word reached me of the death of the prince, your husband—I thought you lost to me forever, thought that I must then live out the rest of my years in the knowledge that the most important part of me was missing. Yes, I took other maids and women, even kept and maintained several for varying lengths of time, for I am a man with hungers that mere soul-sickness cannot erase."

Her mindspeak was gentle, hesitant. "Did you… love any of these, your women, Tim?"

"I suppose that I did… in a way. At least, I felt some emotion for a few, some attachment that I thought was love. But I never did, nor could I ever, feel for another as for you. As mere children, we forged together a truly singular relationship. It has passed through fires of hate and fires of war and been bathed in oceans of tears—yours, mine, and poor, used, victimized father's—but still its temper rings true."

A day's ride to the east, in Morguhn Hall, Ahrkeethoheeks Bili lay, fully clothed, upon his big, wide bed. His eyes were closed, but his unusual, highly trained and disciplined mental faculties were fully awake… and in contact with another of the few minds similar to his.

"It is only suspicion, Aldora. No, less than that, say, intuition. I have received a few unconfirmed rumors from the north, but then, you and I both know that warfare is always abrim with rumors, warriors being as gossipy as old women. I knew them both, of course, as children and they both seemed possessed of the uncommonly good mindspeak that runs in the bloodline, but Ahl's talents eclipsed theirs, especially after he lost his eyes. Then, too, they both were gone for ten years."

There was intense excitement boiling, bubbling in the faraway mind. "Bili, there are latent abilities, powers, in your mind that none of us was ever able to even recognize or categorize, much less probe and hone. So don't call your feeling about these minds 'only' anything—no doubt a sense of perception you don't even know you have is alerting you.

"I'll be in Morguhn as fast as horseflesh can bring me. But first I must contact Milo. Damn his short-range farspeak, anyway! I'll have to send a galloper… no, I'll go as far as Theesispolis myself, and send a galloper from there. He's on campaign, as usual, leaving me and Mara and Drehkos to rule the Confederation. Oh, Sun and Wind, if only you are right, Bili."

"Steel grant that I am," beamed the ahrkeethoheeks, with fervor. "For I fear me that they both bide in deadly danger at Vawn Hall, Aldora. That Ehleen sow that Zenos' uncle persuaded poor old Hwahltuh to marry is intent on her dung-wallowing son, Myron, being confirmed thoheeks and chief. I've always been dead certain that she was responsible for Ahl's blinding and for the death of my youngest half brother, Behrl, as well.

"Hwahltuh himself suspected that much of his progressive illness was due to some machination of Mehleena and her tongue-sister, the witchwoman. Since his death, she's discharged most of the Freefighters, along with many of the Kindred and Ahrmehnee retainers, replacing them with a carefully chosen pack of crafty, sneaking Ehleenee. Another thing you and the High Lord should know is that she has brought in one of those fanatic hedge priests, one of the gelded ones. He lives in the hall as a noble and honored guest, I'm told."

"And so?" she demanded. "Are you going soft, Bili? You know those black-robed troublemakers are proscribed throughout the Confederation. Why haven't you and your kahtahfrahktoee just ridden over to Vawn and introduced that priest's unwashed arse to a sharp stake? Such is your right, nay, your duty as ahrkeethoheeks. Milo would say the same, and you know it."

"The idea has crossed my mind more than once, Aldora. You know how I feel about Ehleen priests… and most Ehleenee, for that matter; I'd dearly love to impale the fat bastard, Mehleena and all her crew, as well, but that damned, chuckleheaded Zenos stands in the way."

"Prince Zenos of Karaleenos, sixteenth of that name," Aldora beamed. "I warned Milo and Mara and Drehkos not to confirm him prince. He is the diseased and decaying branch of a once-great tree. The last true king of Karaleenos, dear, old Zenos XII, would never have owned him as his, and Zenos XI would likely have had so poor a specimen drowned shortly after birth. He has then forbidden you to deal simple justice to this illegal cleric?"

"No," answered Bili. "Not in so many words, not directly. But when I took up the matter of the priest with him last spring at the Year Council, he brought up the fact that Mehleena is his first cousin and, as such, the descendant of kings, as is he."

"Hens' ballocks!" beamed Aldora. "So, too, am I, so is Mara. So, likely, are most of the non-Kindred folk in this Confederation, if the lines were traced back far enough. But a royal pedigree cannot be considered a license for lawbreaking. I'm going to communicate all this to the others before I take horse for the west. Either Mara or Drehkos can care for things here in the capital, and the other can ride down to Zenos' seat and remind him of a few facts. Before all be done, you may be Prince of Karaleenos, as I said you should have been when Zenos' sire died."

"Dammit, Aldora, I don't want to be a prince, any more than I wanted to be an archduke; I was very happy simply as thoheeks and chief of Morguhn, and you know it."

"Nor do I want to be a High Lady of the Confederation; could I, I'd ride far west, to the Sea of Grass, and find a clan of the Kindred. But I cannot, I have responsibilities which shape my life. So do you, lord ahrkeethoheeks. You have responsibilities—to your sovrans, to the Confederation, to all the law-abiding folk of that Confederation and to your Kindred. A prince who would not need to be reminded to rule by law rather than to allow himself and his judgments to be swayed by ties of house or kinship would be of great value to all. Zenos—Wind take his wormy guts!—has never been such a prince; you would be, it's that simple.

"But that matter aside. I charge you, in Milo's name, to take whatever actions you deem necessary until he and I can reach Vawn, and Zenos' likes and dislikes be damned."

Arising from his bed, Bili of Morguhn took his famous axe down from its wall hooks and commenced replacing the rawhide-and-wire grip on the steel shaft, absently humming through his wolf-grim smile a song that had been popular during his war years in the Middle Kingdoms.

"Death rides all in plate and His tall horse is black. He leads every charge and His bowstring's never slack. He stalks ev'ry camp and He rides ev'ry raid. His steel harvests warrior and merchant and maid. Death rides a coal-black horse, and we are sworn to His service. A Freefighter rides for Blood and Death."

Myron had been assisted from the room, still gasping, gurgling and dry-retching in his misery, his fine clothing fouled with vomit, his flushed face streaked with sweat and tears and most of his weight borne by Gaios and a husky servingman. His mother proffered no word of apology for her sudden attack, rather she called for another big bowl of buttered-and-honeyed porridge and for another ewer of chilled wine. In ominous silence, she shoveled down porridge and swilled wine, her movements jerky with undischarged rage. The other children cowered at their end of the high table, silent and wide-eyed with fright. The priest sat petrified, the stains of her earlier outburst drying on his robes. Only Neeka continued to consume her food in a normal fashion—the "mistress" knew better than to attack her.

When she had finished the last of her vegetable broth, yogurt, boiled eggs and cucumbers, Neeka sank back in the chair, sipped slowly at the watered, resinous wine and thought about blind Ahl's sudden comment that Mehleena would henceforth be forbidden use of the Master's Chair; then she closed her eyes and sent her powerful, self-trained mind questing, seeking through the hall and every mind in it What she found gave her such a start that she almost dropped her goblet. Her features suddenly drawn and pale as whey, she turned and touched Mehleena's blubbery arm.

"We must speak privately—and very soon. That which we least expected is come to pass, but if we move quickly enough, we still may win the day."

A wall panel near the head of Giliahna's bed swung silently open on well-greased hinges and Mairee Lahvoheetos stepped out, followed by Ahl Sanderz. There was but the barest scraping of Ahl's felt boot against the frame of the secret door, yet before the two had advanced more than two paces into the bedchamber, Tim had spun out of the bed in a whirl of motion and stood confronting them, nude, but armed with both bared sword and dirk. Giliahna still crouched upon the well-used bed, but from some hidden recess she had drawn and now grasped a wavy-bladed Zahrtohgahn dagger.

Teeth showing in a sardonic smile, Ahl clapped his hands softly, saying, "Very good, brother Tim, sister Giliahna, for all that I deliberately provided a bit of noise for warning; I think me that perhaps a murder-minded Ehleen or three would not have been so considerate. Before we do or say anything else, both of you raise your mindshields, and keep them up. The mind of Mehleena's pet witch is nearly as powerful as mine or Bili's, though in different ways. Too, there's another exceptionally powerful mind in this hall. It's been here for some years, but I've never been able to contact it directly. Not knowing for certain that it is for us, we had best consider it to be against us. So do not mindspeak anything of import until this affair be sorted out and this hall cleared of our enemies."

Tim sank onto the bed and, as he resheathed his broadsword and dirk, said, with a grin, "I think my heart almost stopped when you two came through that damned panel, brother. Who's out to do me in, anyhow—you or Mehleena?"

The blind man did not return the smile. "Were it me, Tim, you'd never have survived your bath. You've been exceedingly careless since you rode in this morning. Didn't Bili make it clear that your life hangs on a frayed thread in this hall?

"These foes have already slain two of our brothers and our father—I believe that as surely as nits make lice, they're immediately responsible for all three deaths, and for the loss of my sight, as well. They drugged Father and maneuvered the poor old man into banishing both of you, which we all know he never would have done in his right mind. Mehleena was certain you were dead, Tim. Now that you are returned and stand between her and her nefarious designs on this duchy, you can be damned sure that she'll not stick at one more murder."

Again, Tim showed his teeth. "Then the fat bitch had better do it within the next couple of hours, dear brother, for at the same time I left Morguhn Hall, so did gallopers from brother Bili. They bore archducal orders that the Kindred electors of Vawn-Sanderz arrive at this hall no later than the second hour after the nooning. Yes the Ehleen sow would gleefully slay me, but would she dare do in most of the nobility of this duchy? I think not, for she'd have Bili down on her in a trice and her kinship with Prince Zenos would be of no help to her—and she knows this.

"No, brother, III be duke by this time tomorrow. You'll so J notify Bili by farspeak and he, in turn, will inform Kehnooryos Atheenahs by the same method, while sending word to the prince via galloper.

"But, by Steel and Blood," his face looked as if he had bitten into a piece of rotten fruit, "to have a Myron for tanist sets my teeth edge to edge."

Ahl said, "There's no need to fret about that, Tim. Even if we're unable to eliminate the pervert in any other way, the mere mention by the chief-elect that he does or does not want a certain man as tanist or subchief will usually change the minds of the electors. The tanist need not be a member of the chief's immediate family, you know—that's only custom not law; the Couplets of Horseclans Law only insist that tanist, chief and subchiefs of a clan be of blood relationship. All the electors are our blood relations, Tim, and any one of them would be happy, honored and even flattered to be selected the new tanist."

Tim sighed in relief. "You know them better than do I, Ahl. Whom would you say is my best choice?"

With no hesitation, the sightless man answered, "Young Vahrohneeskos Tahm Adaimian of Lion Mountain."

Tim snorted and shook his head. "Young is right; he must be a good six or seven years my junior, Ahl. Besides, he's half barbarian, isn't he?"

Mairee frowned and Ahl snapped, "Ahrmehnee! Barbarian is a relative term, dear brother. To be cursed Ehleenee, everyone who is not a kath-ahrohs is a barbarian, to a greater or lesser degree—Kindred, Ahrmehnee, burkers, everybody. Tahm is kin and Kindred through the maternal line, and lest you forget, Tim, that is how Horseclans kinship is reckoned, not by the silly and imprecise manner of the northern barbar…" He stopped in midword and grinned sheepishly, then both couples joined in laughter. The laugher erased the tension which had been present from the moment of Ahl's and Mairee's entrance; the atmosphere in the wake of those gales of merriment was considerably more relaxed and familial.

Ahl's right arm hugged his younger brother's scarred and muscular shoulders fiercely. "It's good to have you back, Tim. So damned good. Even so, I think you and Gil were wise to cover your hides. This gives promise of being a full day of settling old scores, and anything could happen at any moment, now. The Ehleen sow has schemed and slain for nigh on twenty years and she'll not give up easily or soon."

While Tim pulled on smallclothes, Giliahna summoned Widahd, donned a loose gown and felt slippers, then began to select clothing items as the tiny brown maid gathered the numerous necessities for her lady's bath. Tim was stamping into his second boot by the time the two were ready to descend to the bath wing. He had just placed his baldric over his bead when his sister came hurrying back, horror reflecting from her eyes.

"Tim. Come quickly. It's… your sergeant. In a chair by the outer door, and he's dead."

Chapter X

The young captain insisted that Giliahna continue on to the bath, but he also insisted that Ahl and Mairee accompany her, then he and the apprentice of Master Fahreed carried the chair and its lifeless contents around to the master physician's suite in the north wing. While the brown-skinned apprentice cleared a long table of books and writing materials, Tim held the cooling body cradled in his arms, unashamed tears of rage and sorrow streaming down his scarred cheeks.

The master was a tall, slender man, topping Tim's own height by a head. Where the skin of the apprentice was the soft brown of Tim's boots, the master's was so black that it looked bluish. His scalp was as clean-shaven as his face, and both bore sufficient scars to attest to the fact that Master Fahreed was no stranger to the practice of arms, physician or no. There was an aura of concern and thoroughgoing competence about the man, and Tim liked him on sight.

"Lord Tim," said the master, speaking Mehrikan of the Middle Kingdoms, but with a peculiar lilt and accent the like of which Tim had never heard in a Zahrtohgahn's speech. "If this poor man was your friend, perhaps you had best leave the room whilst I inquire into the cause of his demise. Some of the procedures I may find needful might seem to you a discourtesy to the body."

Tim shook his head curtly. "Thank you. Master Fahreed, but I'll stay. The deaths of friends are nothing new to me. As for Rai's body, he would have been the first to tell you that a corpse is dead meat and can no more be offended than can a side of beef. It is imperative that I know, and know quickly, how he was slain, however."

With a nod, the master strode over to a washstand and scrubbed his hands and tapering fingers vigorously with strong soap and a small brush in a bowl of steaming water, then shrugged off his outer robe, replacing it with another of bleached linen.

Waving a hand at the contorted features of the dead sergeant, the master said, "We already can safely assume that we know the immediate cause of death, Lord Tim. And what is that, Raheen?"

"Poison, master," replied the shorter, lighter-skinned man, unhesitatingly. Then he leaned close and examined the bulging, glassy eyes and, after a moment, parted the lips and sniffed at the mouth. Straightening, he added, "Most likely, arrow poison, master, since none of the characteristic odors of poisons are in the mouth and the lips show no burns nor the teeth any discolorations."

Tim shook his head. "Arrow poison? There's no wound on Rai's body, Master Fahreed."

"That remains to be determined, Lord Tim," replied the master in his softly booming voice.

When the sergeant's boots and trousers of waxed linen canvas were removed a great stench suddenly filled the room— evidence that the contortions of the facial muscles had been matched by contortions in other parts of the body. The apprentice, Raheen, examined the dung intently before consigning it to a chamberpot, squeezed a measure of urine from the sodden smallclothes and studied this sample too.

But the master all at once stepped close to the body, lightly resting two spread fingers at either side of what looked to Tim like a small, roundish bruise high on the frontal quadrant of the right thigh. Striding over to the heap of fouled, smelly clothes, the tall man squatted and carefully scrutinized the upper right leg of the breeches. Grunting and nodding, he arose and said something in the guttural Zahrtohgahn language. The apprentice cleaned his hands, then opened a chest and brought a small case over to the table. When he had selected the instrument he wanted, the master beckoned Tim closer.

Holding a silver-rimmed glass lens a bit above the bruise, he said, "Lord Tim, here is your man's death wound. The hole of entry in the trousers is so minute that one who was I not searching specifically for such would ever see it."

With a small-bladed knife, the physician neatly bisected the small wound at the center of the bruised area, slowly cutting deeper and deeper and gradually lengthening the incision that he might better see into the depth. Finally, he dropped the knife into a shallow bowl, wiped his hands on his white robe and, after removing the robe, went over to the washstand and began to scrub his hands again.

While scrubbing, he spoke, "Lord Tim, a long and very slender blade—probably of less thickness than a wheat-straw—was suddenly thrust deeply into the man's thigh. Whether by design or by mere chance, it struck into one of the bigger blood tubes. Like many arrow poisons, the immediate result was almost total paralysis, though the body continued to live long enough for a bruise to form at the point of entry. He likely was generally conscious and in considerable agony almost to the end—probably about a quarter hour after the wound was inflicted."

Tim growled low in his throat. It was an ugly, feral sound, and Giliahna felt the hairs rise on the nape of her neck and goose flesh on her arms, despite the steamy heat of the bath in which her body was immersed.

"But where," mused Ahl, "would the bitch and her witch get arrow poison? I know of no place in the Confederation it's used, and I believe the Sword Cult has outlawed it in all the Middle Kingdoms. Of course, some of the western barbarians…"

Master Fahreed shook his shiny head. "No, Lord Ahl, the mountain folk of whom you speak do not use actual poisons, they rather steep the points in fermenting dung. But poisons are not so difficult to obtain. Anyone with access to certain plants or their extracts can compound such vile substances, and mere outlawry never deters those who have no modicum of respect for law."

Tim voiced agreement. "Aye, Ahl, what the master says be true enough, at least in the north. Sword Council decrees only cover the conduct of warfare, open and declared warfare; many bravos and assassins use poisons, though the unlucky lout who's caught with any in his possession is accorded a long-drawn-out and excruciatingly painful public death as a salutary lesson; so too are those few merchants whose greed led them to stock and peddle poisons."

Master Fahreed frowned. "Which facts—though they do not really apply to our present issue—are why all my Zahrtohgahn medicines are shipped by sea and brought to me by special couriers, since many of them could easily be considered or used as poisons."

When she was certain she was alone, Neeka Mahree-mahdees thrust the lethal brass pin deep into the glowing coals of a small brazier and then placed a couple of fresh briquets of charcoal atop it. Leaning back in her chair, she smiled to herself. It had gone better, easier, more smoothly than she'd hoped.

Following her directions to the very letter—which was more than the fat, slovenly, unpredictable bitch of a mother had ever been able or willing to do!—little Behti had skipped along the upstairs hall, her budding breasts tightly bound down to make her appear younger than her eleven years. She had entered into conversation with the ill-bred northern barbarian and finally sat upon his lap. After a few more minutes of conversation, the child had plunged the pin deeply into the man's thigh, then jerked it out and ran swiftly to Neeka's chambers. The girl showed definite promise.

But the dam… Neeka frowned. Mehleena had always been difficult to manage, very erratic, but she was gradually growing worse. That business at table, for instance. She could easily have slain Myron; he was lucky that his mother's choice in foods did not require the use of a table knife, else his guts would have been around his ankles. Mehleena had never been completely sane, but she was becoming more and more irrational, and the fits were lasting longer and longer. Any little thing could now trigger outbursts of violent rage in the gross woman; her servants and her children were alert as wild deer around her, and not even her priest dared to gainsay her.

That priest! Neeka ground her teeth at the thought of almost any priest. Her husband had been a priest in the land of her birth—Kehnooryos Mahkedohnya, far to the north, more northerly even than the Black Kingdoms. She had been but a girl then, but she had been happy with him. Until the blackhearted bastard had renounced her and his marriage to her so that he might advance to offices wherein marriage was not allowed.

It had not been enough for Demetrios to renounce her and simply cast her out. He had sold her to the slaver captain of a coastal trading ship, who had raped or otherwise molested her body at least twice each day all the way down the length of the coast to Esmithpolis, one of the Karaleenos ports. There he and his officers had been jailed and his ship and cargo impounded for his ill-starred attempt to bribe a newly appointed inspector of imports. Since slavery was illegal in the lands of the Confederation, Neeka had been turned out upon the beach with the crew of the ship, glad that she at least was in a land wherein Ehleeneekos was spoken, even if that land was all of twelve hundred kaiee from her own.

But she quickly discovered that there were no convents and monasteries, here, as in her northern homeland, nor even any churches of the Ehleen faith. In the wake of a great, bloody rebellion led by priests and higher clergy a few years before her arrival, the practice of any form of the ancient faith of the Ehleenee had been forbidden by decree of the High Lords, all church properties had been confiscated to the Confederation, all senior members of the hierarchy had been put to death and all the lesser sorts had been granted the choice of similar deaths or banishment for life.

So, since there was no organized group from which a stranger Ehleen might receive charity, and since she then owned no trade, Neeka, to avoid starvation, began to offer the only commodity she had. But after less than a week, she was confronted by uniformed town guardsmen as she left a waterfront tavern one midnight. Announcing loudly that she was under arrest for unlicensed whoring, the six guardsmen bound Neeka's arms and dragged her off to the port fortress. When they had thoroughly searched her, with many a crude and lascivious jest, robbed her of her few, hard-earned coppers and single, silver thrahkmeh piece, they stripped her and took turns raping her. Their sport finished, they loosed her arms and threw her and her tattered clothing into a narrow cell built into the wall of the fortress.

Neeka was never certain just how long she remained in that cell. It was damp and cold—so cold that she almost came to welcome the guardsmen who swaggered in in twos and threes to make use of her body, for at least then she was a bit warmer for a while. There were vermin, of course— fleas, lice, roaches and centipedes—but only once did she see a rat—and that was to prove a red letter day.

The big, gray wharf rat, large as a cat, scurried out from a hole in the wall, long, scaly tail dragging behind him. Neeka shrieked shrilly and took a precarious stance atop the rim of the straw-filled stone trough that served her for a bed, but the rodent gave her not even a glance, rather making a mighty effort to leap onto the sill of the high, barred window, through which the morning sun streamed. But it was too high and the rat fell back onto the floor with a meaty plop.

Before the rat could gather himself to try again, another animal followed him out of the wall. Neeka had never before seen such a beast. Long of body it was, at least two cubits, but of no more thickness than the terrified rat; the tail was thick and slightly flattened and furred like the body, with a close-lying, glossy brown pelt; the legs seemed short and stout and the paws were webbed and furnished with the retractable claws of a feline; the head appeared to be a blending of feline and mustelid traits—cat and weasel—with a mouthful of glittering white teeth, damp shiny black nose and slit-pupiled, moss-green eyes. The newcomer gave the terrified Neeka no more attention than had the survival-minded rat, heading directly for its quarry in a brown blur of swift motion.

The rat tried to fight for its life, but both fight and life were over in an eyeblink of time. While the rodent's dying limbs still jerked and twitched, the strange beast lapped up every droplet of spilled blood, then tore into the carcass, devouring the tenderer portions of it.

Weak from suffering, abuse and privation—the guardsmen only fed her at odd hours and then only scraps, and she would long since have died of thirst had it not been that she had taken to licking the ice off the windowsill and walls every morning—Neeka could not stand on the stone rim long, then she had sunk back into the verminous straw, hugging the thin, filthy blanket around herself with numb, chapped hands.

Done with its grisly repast, the brown beast dragged the ravaged rat remains over to the corner of the cell, used the one paw to raise the wooden lid of the privy hole enough to push the carcass in, then lowered the lid again. That done, it sank upon its haunches and, catlike, began to cleanse its face with well-licked paws.

Seeing those moss-green eyes upon her, Neeka began to tremble, and a moan of terror bubbled up from her throat Then… then it seemed that the beast spoke to her!

"Why do you fear me, sister? The rat might well have harmed you, but not me. Two-legs are my sisters and brothers; wherever two-legs build their dens, always are there plenty of fat rats for my kind to kill and eat."

"Oh, my dear God," mumbled Neeka to herself, "I've finally lost my reason! I thought, really believed that that animal spoke to me in Ehleeneekos!"

So shaken was she that she did not even try to move when the brown beast moved fluidly to the stone trough, leaped easily upon it and snuggled close beside her in the straw, its cold, wet nose pressed against her temple through her dull, matted hair.

After a few minutes, it seemed that the beast spoke to her again, but this time she came to the realization that the communication was silent and was not truly in words; she was "hearing" its thoughts in her mind.

"You have been ill used, sister. I have seen all that has befallen you in your memories. But I cannot comprehend why you allow these shiny-chest two-legs to mount you when you are not in season and do not wish to be mounted."

Neeka began to sob, thinking her answers since she now realized it was not necessary to speak aloud to the beast. "If I did not submit, they would just hold me down or hurt me and maybe not feed me or even take my blanket and clothes and this straw; then I should freeze to death."

The beast snarled without conscious thought, but Neeka no longer feared her furry companion. "I would like to see the male try to mount me out of my season, sister! I assure you, he would be a feast for birds and little fishes in short order. But your poor teeth are dull and your claws almost nothing, and you have not one of the long, steel claws such as two-legs often carry. But I think I know one who will make the males here stop this mounting of you."

After a long while, Neeka heard voices in the corridor, men's voices. They were none of them speaking Ehleeneekos, and so she had no idea what they were saying, but the presence of more than one man in the corridor had always led to but one thing for her. She began to whimper in helpless hopelessness, for she had so wanted to believe that brown beast… or had she only imagined it all? Was it a hallucination bred entirely in her mind, that mind now crumbling and disordered through starvation, cold and long abuse? She felt then that it must have been illusion, for weasel-like cats—catlike weasels?—did not talk to people, silently or otherwise.

The voices neared. There were at least two, perhaps three, and one was raised and choppy in rage. Nearer to the door to her cell, there was the sound of a blow—flesh and bone upon flesh and bone—and a cry of pain. Then the bolts were pulled back to disclose two of the men who had so often come to use her. But this time there was no lust in their eyes, rather was there fear, and one man's face was rapidly swelling and discoloring.

A third man stood between them, bigger than either and more richly dressed. He spoke to her in that strange tongue. When she shook her head, he suddenly bespoke her as she thought the beast had done.

"Ratbane tells me you can mindspeak, woman. Is this true?

"Mindspeak?" Neeka thought. "What is mindspeak?"

The big man grinned. "Just what you're now doing, Ehleen. Never mind telling me what these degenerate scum have been up to. Ratbane imparted most of it to me, and I can guess the sorry rest of the tale."

He snapped something aloud, and both of the guardsmen suddenly stood rigid and unmoving, their faces devoid of emotion, but fear still dwelling in their eyes. Then, speaking for her benefit in pure, southern Ehleeneekos, he ordered, "Report back to your barrack, on the double] Inform the senior sergeant that you're under arrest and that he is to send two men to replace you here. Inform him that the initial charge is flagrant insubordination and that more charges will be added to that one as I think of them. Dismiss!."

The two guardsmen almost fell over themselves in turning about to run off up the corridor.

The big man did not come into Neeka's cell; instead he held out a hand. "Come out here. I have no doubt you'd enjoy a hot bath, and I, for one, would like to see what you look like in something besides dirt and rags and that old blanket. No doubt you could make good use of some food and strong wine too, eh?"

Captain Djordj Muhkawlee was as good as his word. When Neeka at long last emerged from the sunken tub, there were thick towels waiting to dry her body and hair, an impressive array of small flasks containing scents and fragrant oils, plus a pile of assorted items of female attire—few of the items were in her size, but all of them were wrought of far costlier fabrics than ever she had worn. Upon the top of the heap was a slender hair fillet that looked to be of pure gold.

When she had clothed herself as well as she might, Neeka was escorted by a manservant to a spacious, brazier-warmed room wherein the captain stood beside a low dining table filled with plate on heaping plate of meats, fish, vegetables, cheeses, breads and wine. At mere sight of so much food, Neeka's eyes overflowed and she gasped great, ragged sobs. Gentry, the officer folded her into his strong arms and cradled her too-thin body against his red velvet brigandine, all stitched and embroidered with gold and silver threads. He stood immobile, silently patting her heaving shoulders, his mind broadbeaming soothing thoughts, until she had cried it all out. Then he led her over and sat her upon a dining couch.

"Eat your fill, Neeka. But be sure to eat before you take much of the wine—it's quite strong. I must go now. I've some matters to attend, but I shall return as soon as I may."

In her small workroom at Vawn-Sanderz Hall, Neeka used a pair of long-handled pincers to withdraw the glowing brass pin from its fiery bed, then dropped it into a flat pan of water with a hiss and a small puff of steam. The heat had discolored the brass, but any trace of poison-paste or blood had burned off in the brazier. She poured a half-cup of watered wine from an ewer and sipped at it until the pin had cooled enough for her fingers to lift it out and dry it, then she placed it in a box of similar pins. Master Lokos had always stressed the value of neatness to a practitioner of any of the arcane arts.

She sat back and stared into her winecup, staring as well into the dim past. Dear, dear, sweet, old Lokos. If only…

Neeka had remained Djordj Muhkawlee's mistress for the year and a half he stayed in Esmithpolis, until his tour as fortress commander was completed and his replacement brought down his new posting orders from Goohm, General Headquarters of the Armies of the Confederation, along with notice of his promotion to mehyahlehltehros, or major, of heavy infantry. The new commander, Lieutenant First Grade Eenzeeos Rahbuhtz, also brought with him his young wife.

Three days before his scheduled departure for the western frontier and the veteran battalion he was to command, Djordj had set before her a lengthy document.

"Neeka, as you are aware, I am not a wealthy man. As you also know, I had been expecting a posting to the command of another coastal fortress, not to a command on the frontier. Therefore, I've had to scrape together every stray thrahkmeh and sell many of my personal effects in order to buy a set of decent plate and other essentials for campaigning in those hellish mountains.

"I told you I would provide for you and I have. Although I can leave you no money, I've arranged an apprenticeship for you with Master Lokos Prahseenos, the fahrmahkohpios. This is an agreement of indenture; he agrees in it to provide you food, lodging and clothing and, in return for eight years of work for him, to train you and impart to you sufficient of his knowledge in his craft to enable you to earn a living anywhere as a craftsman of his calling. His mark is already affixed and properly witnessed—you need only sign below and I will witness your own mark. It is an honorable craft, Neeka, and one of the few that will accept women as apprentices or masters.

"Now, Lokos is an old man and sometimes crotchety, Neeka, hut he is universally recognized a true master-of-masters and those whom he has trained are in great demand from Kuhmbuhluhnburk to Ehlehfuhntpolis. That alone, that artistry at his craft and value as a teacher, has kept him out of the fortress prison on more than one occasion, for he is one of the most rabid of the Ehleen radicals. But learn his skills, Neeka; you need not also imbibe of his politics."